Ain't Talkin'

Roche and Markus jogged down the alley between two brownstone buildings, when they emerged on the other side they found themselves on a wide north-south stretch of road lined with homes and offices and businesses.

“I’m pretty sure this is Mission Street.” Markus said, rotating and looking for a sign.

“What good does that do us?” Roche asked. The people of New San Fran were in a panic, for sure. Those who had not barred all their doors and shuttered their windows were waiting patiently on doorsteps and sidewalks with their home-defense weapons drawn, ready to take on all comers like a city full of cage-fighters. This only made Roche and Markus blend in further. They were just another couple of good ol’ boys armed for defending the homestead.

“Mission Street runs south and then curves west. It’s one of the longer streets in the city and it loops almost all the way to the College. If we can. . .holy shit. We’re on it.” Markus pointed up at a sign above a barred-window storefront that read ‘Mission Street General’ in artfully painted letters across a metal panel ripped from a different building.

“Well let’s go, kid.” Roche sauntered down the street at a good pace. Less than a jog but a good deal faster than a walk. Markus fell is step beside him, and if anyone happened to notice them, they would just be another couple of fellas on their way home or to defend their charge from whomever happened to be invading the city.

A transport truck, much like the one that Roche and Markus had taken back to Parmiskus, rolled onto Mission Street from the left. Atop the cab of the truck were a number of pivoting halogen spotlights, checking the alleys and dark spots between buildings.

“Walk like you belong here.” Roche said under his breath.

“Won’t they recognize us?”

“I haven’t left any witnesses in longer than you’ve been alive. Might be a lot of folk looking for me but there ain’t but a handful that actually know my face.” Roche spat tobacco juice into the street when the lights fell over his jacket and kept walking.

“And me?” Markus jittered.

“Walk like you belong and keep your idiot head down.”

Markus hunched his shoulders down and tipped his head. The lights had passed and the transport, loaded in the canvas-covered back with armed soldiers, moved north up Mission Street. Over a loudspeaker from the truck, a soldier in the passenger seat intoned; “Stay in your homes, this is just a drill. On behalf of Ethercorp we apologize for this disruption. Please stay in your homes, this is just a drill. On behalf. . .”

The truck continued, but soon it was blocks away and a distant memory, though they could still hear the monotone voice from the loudspeaker.

“How much farther?” Roche asked. The sign they’d just passed while crossing a street read ‘Army St.’

“Little ways, yet. You were right though, this is quicker.” Markus said, looking around it was almost comical how they were not noticed at all.

“Isn’t it though? Send a militia in and they have to do everything the militia way, soldiers will be soldiers. But when this shit goes down, it’s better if you don’t look like a soldier.”

Markus thought about this. The next street came up as they passed theaters and once brilliantly painted buildings. Markus read the sign aloud.

“Army street.”

Roche stopped and turned around. He read the sign himself.

“Army? But.” The walker’s mind worked quickly. “Shit.” It would have been easy to miss seeing the same sign twice and dismiss it, but a walker learned to take such things seriously. A walker knew that little brain malfunctions were caused by fish.

“What?” Markus asked but Roche had already given up the jaunting walk and was running down Mission Street.

“Already seen! Déjà vu! Run, kid! They let the constructs out!”